


Case

by xbritomartx



Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-10-29 07:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10849722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbritomartx/pseuds/xbritomartx
Summary: It is September 2014 and the Simurgh has cloned Eidolon again. Rather than leave him unprotected and vulnerable to being boiled alive by a surly dragon, she chooses to raise him herself. In order to do this, she needs a job. Enter Sam Stewart, hardboiled P.I. and hardcore single mother.Inspired by redditor /u/Regvlas, who created Simurgh & Snitch. Set in the same continuity as Loaf, but it's not necessary to read that to get this.





	1. Prologue

She descends under the cover of darkness.

Those who monitor her will not notice her absence for another ten to twenty minutes, and that delay will be critical in shaping how they respond once they locate her.

She ensconces herself in a narrow thoroughfare between two large structures. There is nothing in her immediate vicinity save two metal containers filled with the abandoned detritus of nearby inhabitants. No subjects will venture into this area while she occupies it save one, a man too affected by intoxicants to believe his eyes even if he notices her.

She reaches out across the nearby community in search of a specific subject, one who uses her power to create and control constructions of the same materials members of this species use to protect themselves from the elements.

She uses this power to fashion a covering for her own physical aesthetic. As she works, she looks forward to see how the subjects will react. Fear, hostility. She changes the materials, eschewing dark and bold colors in favor of lighter and softer shades, and looks forward again. Confusion, wariness.

This is acceptable.

By the time she is complete, the subjects responsible for the defense of this region have noticed her absence from orbit and are searching for her. Irrelevant. She will accomplish her objective long before they can piece things together.

She sets off with some difficulty. She is smaller than any of her siblings, but she is nevertheless nearly three times the height of the subjects and much more durable than anything they have built. Where she cannot avoid damaging the roadways and buildings, she uses her telekinesis to effect a repair.

She arrives at her destination and pauses before the last obstacle, a thin sheet made of wood and fastened in place with iron. This is a delicate operation and she consults her future sight.

Simply pushing through the wood will cause distress and offense. She sifts through the memories of all subjects in her range to determine the correct protocol for overcoming this final barrier and introducing herself.

She directs her _hand_ to gently strike the _door_. She relies extensively on her precognition to gauge the correct amount of force.

The subject within will soon come to unseal the barrier. The Simurgh uses the time it takes for her to waken and stumble through her quarters to ready another device that she created, one that will enable her to communicate with the subjects in a manner they will find less threatening than her song.

The barrier will slide open—

_The barrier slides open._

The subject will stand within, ready to be greeted—

_The girl makes a noise that conveys shock and fear._

And the Simurgh's device will emit the correct sequence of sounds—

_"Hello, Tattletale. My name is Samantha Stewart."_

The Simurgh looks through the upcoming minute to determine what Tattletale's response will be.

Something is wrong. The girl is not about to respond to the greeting. A quick review of her state reveals fear and stress hormones. She is overwhelmed by various emotions, physically unable to communicate.

The Simurgh searches for a solution. She must do something to alleviate Tattletale's fear, to impose normalcy on this discussion in order to advance her goals. She directs her device to issue another statement in the girl's language.

"I said: Hello, Tattletale. My name is Samantha Stewart. May I come in?"

This time, the girl will respond. Her mouth will close, she will swallow, she will take a deep breath, she will throw up her hands, and she will say—

_"Yeah, sure. Just make yourself at home, why don't you?"_

She doesn't feel pleasure, but the Simurgh derives a measure of satisfaction from Tattletale's words; inviting a guest to make one's self at home is a means of expressing enthusiastic welcome. Her mission is thus far a success, and she continues to look ahead to refine her plan.

"May I sit down?" she asks.

"Knock yourself out," the girl replies, waving her arm at a construction of leather and wood.

The Simurgh is unable to rest her weight on this object without crushing it, so she hovers slightly above it to foster the illusion that she is sitting. She checks what the girl perceives, concludes she is visibly floating several inches above the _couch_ , and adjusts accordingly.

Tattletale does not comment on the obvious lapse. This is not out of politeness; her attention is devoted to manipulating the controls of a small piece of technology.

The Simurgh realizes that Tattletale intends to use the object to contact other subjects, ones with more power and authority, and tell them of this conversation.

Disastrous. Her plan relies on blending in with the subjects. It is time for her to adjust her tactics.

She uses her telekinetic power to shatter the communications device, taking care not to let any of the resulting shards damage the girl.

"Yikes!" Tattletale exclaims. "What gives?"

The Simurgh carefully selects the optimal means of conducting this conversation. "You think that I am the Simurgh."

"I do?" Tattletale's eyes narrow. "Yeah," she says. "I do."

"I am not the Simurgh," the Simurgh says. "This is obvious, Tattletale."

The girl laughs a little and rubs her forehead. The Simurgh uses postcognition to interpret this series of gestures as expressing frustration and confusion. "You spent three days following me around," she says. "I know you when I see you."

Logical, careful reasoning will be her ally here. "The Simurgh is known to lack clothes. I have clothes. The Simurgh does not speak. I can speak."

"Ha!" Tattletale says. "The Simurgh also has wings and uses telekinesis. You have wings and my phone was just destroyed by telekinesis."

"Who can say what made your phone explode? Things are acting up all over since the obstacle Scion was eliminated. I've even heard a rumor that some dough had a trigger event while it was being baked."

The Simurgh perceives there will be a pause of about twenty seconds and allows it to take place.

"This," Tattletale murmurs. "This is the first time in four years I've gotten a headache that wasn't my power punishing me. _Thank you_."

"You're welcome," the Simurgh says, and presses on with her point. "The list of dissimilarities grows the longer you consider it. The Simurgh does not have children. I have a small boy."

The girl casts her eyes about the room, apparently searching for the child.

"My son is safe," the Simurgh says. "I have concealed him from those who might wish to boil him alive."

Tattletale laughs. Postcognitive analysis indicates it is six seconds longer and over forty percent shakier than her laughs normally are, and the deviation indicates hysteria rather than amusement. "Is that a _common_ cause of death among youth these days?"

"It is known to happen," the Simurgh says. "I take threats to my son's safety very seriously. Do you know what the last and most important difference between me and the Simurgh is?"

"I can't fucking imagine," Tattletale says. "But you're going to tell me, aren't you?"

"I am. The Simurgh destroys things. I am seeking gainful employment as a private investigator."

The Simurgh considers what she has just said. The statement is bald, unconvincing. She must mention a corroborative detail to add verisimilitude to her narrative.

"That is why I am wearing sunglasses, which the Simurgh would most certainly never do," she announces. "Private investigators must be inconspicuous."

Tattletale puts her head in her hands. "And a fifteen foot tall winged woman isn't conspicuous so long as she wears sunglasses at two in the morning," she says. "Okay. Just . . . okay."

The Simurgh knows that the girl is remarkably close to breaking, to accepting her role in the plan. It will soon be time to make the offer. "Yes," she says. "I am good at being a private investigator."

Tattletale seems arrested by the idea. "I can . . . I can actually see you being a good detective," she says. "If you play it straight."

Suspicious, incongruous with the mental state the Simurgh wishes Tattletale to be in. Even with the benefit of her power, Tattletale should not assume that Samantha Stewart, the human woman she only just met, would be a good PI. "Why is that?" she asks. "Is it because you still believe I am the Simurgh?"

The way the girl pauses, the way her face contorts, the way, all of these indicate that she is at war with herself. " . . . Because your sunglasses give you a very discreet look," she says at last. "Mucho professional."

Success. Step one has been accomplished.

"Excellent," the Simurgh says. "Then it is settled. We will open the firm tomorrow."

"Wait," Tattletale says.

The Simurgh waits.

" _We?!_ "


	2. The Case of the Inexplicably Non-Existent Clientele

Tattletale slouched back in her chair and propped her feet up. She had a hand-rolled electronic cigarette in her mouth, a rocks glass in one hand, and a bottle of Jim Beam in the other. A battered typewriter she had no ability or inclination to use and a trusty .38 special she hadn't loaded sat on the desk. The blinds and the lamps were arranged so that everything important in the room was cast into dramatic shadow.

Lisa was determined to descend into this madness with _style_.

She poured herself a bourbon, drank it, and poured another. Thus fortified, she allowed herself to mentally acknowledge the Endbringer in the room.

Despite the wide mirrored sunglasses, the floppy sunhat, and the pastel nightmare that Tattletale supposed was meant to be a sundress, the Simurgh was very obviously the Simurgh. She was generally pretty good about fitting her _body_ in and around human things, but her _wings_ still crashed into walls, furniture, and fixtures six or seven times an hour. Tattletale had rapidly learned to ignore the quiet repair by telekinesis that followed.

A biologically five-year-old Eidolon—she was supposed to call him David—was playing with blocks on the floor in front of her.

"It's been two weeks," the Simurgh said. Conversing with her was all the uncannier because the text to speech converter she had embedded in the gaudy necklace she wore didn't add emotion or inflection. "We haven't had a single case."

"I can't imagine why not," Tattletale murmured. She tried to keep the e-cig in her mouth as she spoke, like it was some sort of cigar she was chomping on, but her lips moved too much and she lost control. It bounced off her desk and fell to the floor, where an invisible force picked it back up and set it gently back down in front of her.

"I hope business picks up soon," the Simurgh continued. "I have bills to pay."

"No, you don't," Tattletale said. "My other job pays for everything we've done so far."

There was a pause as the Simurgh seemed to digest what Tattletale had said.

"Well," emitted the text to speech device, "I think I _should_ have bills to pay. I can't very well remain dependent on you forever."

Lisa gave an elaborate shrug. "What's a little loan between friends?" she asked.

They were _not_ friends. Lisa didn't like spending her days in an empty office watching the Simurgh fuss at Eidolon, she didn't like having to spend money indulging an Endbringer, and she definitely didn't like living in constant terror. No, they weren't friends.

But Lisa's power told her that the Simurgh _wanted_ to be called her friend. She hadn't been able to figure out _why_ , but every time she tried to collect information the little details always added up to the same conclusion: Ziz was _really_ trying to sell the Sam Stewart guise.

This was inevitably going to end in catastrophe somehow, but Tattletale wasn't about to refuse the Simurgh.

"I think it's important for me to become independent quickly," the Simurgh said. "Perhaps we should hire ourselves to solve the mystery of why nobody is coming to us with work."

Tattletale sipped on her bourbon instead of answering.

The door opened.

Lisa was more than half-hoping for a classy dame with legs up to _here_ and morals down to _there_ , but it was only Legend.

"Welcome to Simurgh and Snitch, the premier P.I. firm in greater New York," she said. "What can we privately investigate for you?"

"I'm here to investigate _you_ ," he said. "What the hell are you _doing_?"

"Come on," Tattletale said. "I'm _almost_ twenty-one."

"I'm not asking about the underaged drinking—though, yes, that's illegal, stop it. I'm asking about what the _hell_ you're doing with the Simurgh!"

Ziz screamed. Everything in the room, from Tattletale's glass to Eidolon's blocks to Eidolon himself, vibrated. Her e-cig rolled off the table again and landed in her trash can. The very walls seemed to reverberate with the scream, and the words

_I AM NOT THE SIMURGH_

resounded in their heads.

Tattletale drained her glass.

Legend shuddered, but he soldiered on. " _If_ that's true," he said, "and I'm not allowing for a second that it _is_ —"

_IT IS TRUE_

"Then why are you calling yourselves _Simurgh and Snitch_?"

"Well," Tattletale said. " _I_ am a detail-oriented thinker, much like the Simurgh, and _Sam_ is fast and has wings, much like the snitch."

Legend took his mask off.

He sat it on the desk next to her revolver.

He put his head into his hands.

The Simurgh's text to speech converter chimed in. "The golden snitch is a flying ball from a popular fantasy book series.”

"I read my kids stories,” Legend said, voice muffled. "I know what Qudditch is.”

Tattletale smiled. She didn't think noir detectives were supposed to grin much, but life was too damn funny for her to change now.

"Imagine if Sam _were_ the Simurgh, though," she said. "Imagine if, for some reason, the Simurgh _did_ come to New York with the intention of being a private eye, of blending in with us and more or less trying to function as a human being."

"That would never happen," interjected the Simurgh.

"Obviously not," Tattletale agreed. "But imagine if it _did_. And imagine if _we_ , humanity, responded poorly. Say we kept calling her the Simurgh when she didn't want to be called the Simurgh, or sent powerful heroes after her for merely opening a small business. Do you think she'd react well? Because I don't think she'd react well. Any veneer of benevolence she'd adopted might well just—vanish."

Legend lowered his hands and looked at her. "You're advising me to accept this."

"I'm saying that in that imaginary, hypothetical scenario, it would be unwise to provoke an Endbringer or try to dissuade her from . . . doing something differently," Tattletale said. "Surely _you_ of all people can understand the impulse to turn over a new leaf. Turn away from past sins."

It was a low blow, maybe, but it wasn't like the Simurgh had moved into _Legend's_ apartment or was wreaking havoc on _his_ nerves.

"Unbelievable," he said. "You think the Wardens should take this at face value."

She smiled at him. "Sure do, Mac."

Legend shook his head.

He ran his hands through his hair. He sighed.

At length he put his mask back on.

"Well," he said. "Maybe people aren't seeking you out because you aren't properly licensed or correctly registered as a small business."

"Hear that, Sam? We've got our first lead!" She swung her feet from her desk to the floor and stood. "Let's go get some licenses."

Legend frantically gestured his disagreement.

"Though I guess I should take care of it," she continued. "Since you have to watch David."

"I have already contacted a babysitter," the Simurgh responded. "She'll be here presently."

"What does that mean?" Legend asked, clearly alarmed. He turned to Tattletale. "What does she mean?" he hissed.

Lisa shrugged. She hadn't guessed that the Simurgh had developed a childcare plan, but she should have, because Simurgh.

As she watched long strands of crystalline hair materialize out of thin air, she decided that she should also have known the Simurgh would pick the worst possible babysitter. The hair consolidated, strand by strand and ribbon by ribbon, into a familiar two-torsoed, three-headed, and four-handed figure.

"Hey, Sam," Tattletale said. "If you're not the Simurgh, then how come you have _Tohu_ on call for babysitting?"

Needling the Simurgh for being the Simurgh was contrary to the advice she'd just given Legend, but it would have to be okay. She couldn't help provoking people.

Even if those "people" were the fucking Endbringers.

“Tattletale, this is not the Endbringer Tohu, but my good friend and sister Tara. Hello, Tara,” the Simurgh said. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Tohu didn’t say anything. All her faces were gray and blank.

“Please take good care of David while we are gone. There are snacks in the office refrigerator and you should call 911 if there is an emergency.”

Tohu picked up Eidolon in one set of arms and started rearranging the blocks with the other.

"Oh, for—" Legend muttered before flying away, presumably to re-alert the authorities.

*

There was only one person in the entire county clerk's office. _Vacant at this hour;_ _Legend cleared everyone out before we got here._

The woman behind the counter was olive-skinned, Middle-Eastern if Lisa had to guess—which she didn't. _Tanline across her cheekbones; used to wearing a bandana. Used to wearing a bandana, requested by Legend to handle a Simurgh-related situation; hero. Hero who wears a bandana_ —

Miss Militia, looking dour, which only boosted Lisa's mood.

Tattletale leaned on the counter. "Evening, ma'am," she said, as suavely as she could manage without bursting into laughter.

"It's ten in the morning," Miss Militia replied.

Tattletale shrugged. Daylight didn't exist in noir, let alone morning. "Me and my friend here, who is called Samantha Stewart and nothing else except 'Sam' and occasionally 'Mom,' would like to be licensed as private investigators."

"Indeed," Miss Militia said. She held up a piece of paper, the only one present in "her" workspace. "I happen to have a list of the requirements here."

"Hit me," Tattletale said. Miss Militia arched an eyebrow at that. "Metaphorically," she added.

"You have to be at least twenty-five years old," the heroine said. Her eye fell on the Simurgh. "How old are you? Almost thirteen?"

"Ridiculous!" Tattletale exclaimed. "She has a six-year-old son. Do you want to check your math, there?"

"I want to check both of your birth certificates," Miss Militia said humorlessly.

Lisa blinked. "Are you serious? We're from Bet! Scion didn't, like, destroy everything _but_ the paperwork! Of course we don't have birth cer—"

"I have them both," said the Simurgh. She reached beneath one of the wings on her wings and brought forth two New Hampshire birth certificates. "Here they are."

"I need genuine birth certificates," Miss Militia said, not even glancing at the proffered papers. "Not blatant forgeries."

"Forgeries?" Tattletale said. "The very thought! You have no evidence!"

Miss Militia's eyes visibly crossed for a moment. "Fine. I guess those are also 'proof,' and I use that word advisedly, that you're United States citizens, which is the next requirement. Do you have high school diplomas?"

"I have a GED," Tattletale said.

"Of course we graduated high school," the Simurgh said simultaneously.

Miss Militia looked from Lisa to Ziz and back. "If you two expect to get away with any undercover work, you need to learn how to coordinate your story in advance," she said.

Lisa didn't have a comeback to that handy, and the Simurgh ignored it in favor of handing over two framed diplomas she'd _also_ had tucked under her wings at some point, somehow.

"Wow, would you look at that," Miss Militia said wearily. "Same high school, same class. I don't suppose the school still exists or your classmates are still alive."

"Nope!" Tattletale chirped.

"Referencing our trauma is rude," the Simurgh added. "I'm shocked you could be so callous. I should ask to speak to your manager."

Lisa elbowed the Simurgh in the gut. Or she would have, but the Simurgh was fifteen feet tall, and so Lisa elbowed her in her harder-than-diamonds hip instead. "Sam, it's okay. No need to escalate the situation. I'm sure she's just overworked."

"I really am," Miss Militia muttered. "Alright, onto experience and education. Do either of you have twenty years of service as a police officer or fire marshal?"

"No."

"What about at least three years of full time experience supervising the work of at least three people who performed investigations?"

"Nah."

"At least three years of full-time investigative experience as an employee for a private investigator or a government investigative agency or police agency?"

"Can't say that I've ever worked _for_ the government," Tattletale said.

"What about having three years full-time equivalent experience where your primary duties were to conduct investigations?"

"Absolutely," Tattletale said. "I investigated all sorts of shit. Security procedures at banks and casinos in Brockton Bay, how to take Coil apart, the structure and motivations of Endbringers, Scion's emotional weakness . . . Sam's super good at investigating, too. She's been at it since late 2001. Almost thirteen years, like you said earlier."

Miss Militia sighed. "This is so wrong," she murmured.

It was probably the kind of comment that would ordinarily be muffled by her bandana, but Tattletale heard it perfectly. She leaned across the counter. "Consider this, Miss Heroic Lady," she whispered. "Every second I spend running this business is a second I don't attend to my vast criminal empire."

Miss Militia rested her forehead on her desk. "It's a four hundred dollar application fee for each of you," she said.

Lisa was saved from awkwardly explaining they'd have to go to an ATM by the Simurgh producing a stack of twenties from beneath yet another one of her wings. Considering that the Simurgh had been complaining about how short on funds she was not an hour prior, Tattletale wondered how she'd gotten ahold of so many bills.

"Here," the Simurgh said as she dropped the money onto Miss Militia's head.

The heroine allowed the bills to settle before pulling a rubber stamp and inkpad out of the desk.

"Against my better judgment, I'm going to pretend these are applications you filled out honestly,” she said as she stamped the birth certificates with APPROVED in big red letters. Then she printed out two licenses in silence. The Simurgh didn’t deign to crouch down in front of the camera, so the picture on hers was mostly of her navel.

"Spiffy. Can we get badges to go with these?" Lisa asked, more to irritate Miss Militia than anything else.

It worked; an even darker look crossed Miss Militia's face. "Just get out of here," she said.

Tattletale bestowed her third-widest grin upon the heroine. "Thanks. You won't regret this any more than I will."

*

As they walked back to their offices, Lisa caught glimpses of people cautiously peeking through their blinds, of people ducking off the main road into buildings and down side streets, even of some drivers and passengers trying to hide by hunkering down in their vehicles.

Everybody knew it was the Simurgh. Nobody was brave enough to say so, let alone act on it.

"I think our next step should be advertising," the Simurgh announced, apparently oblivious to the terror she was spreading.

"Nah, we don't need any," Tattletale replied. "Everybody will know that Simurgh and Snitch was validated by the Wa—er, the county clerk's office by the end of the day. Probably on multiple planets." Her eye fell on an apparently abandoned hotdog cart. "We should get hotdogs instead."

"I do not think people simply knowing about us will bring in business," the Simurgh continued, following Tattletale. She was trying to make it seem like she was walking, but each step she appeared to take landed a half-inch or so above the asphalt. "We need positive attention, attention that will convey we are competent and responsible enough to be worthy of our licenses. Press coverage of a human-interest case should prove to be sufficient."

"Uh-huh," Tattletale said. She leaned over the hotdog stand and grinned at the paper-white man cowering on the other side of it. "Hey there," she said. "My good friend Sam Stewart here and I would like some hotdogs."

The man mumbled something unintelligible. It might have been a prayer.

"Hotdogs," Tattletale said slowly. "For money. Can you do that for us?"

"Yes," added the Simurgh, producing more cash. "We would like to celebrate our licensure as private investigators through the purchase and consumption of your wares."

Tattletale rolled her eyes. "That's weird, Sam, don't talk like that. Just say you want a hotdog."

"I want a hotdog," the Simurgh said, pulling the vendor to his feet.

"H-how would you like that?" asked the man.

"Chicago-style," Lisa said.

"Okay," he managed. His hand shook and he dropped the first hotdog bun he reached for. “S-orry.”

"It's okay," Tattletale said. "Take your time. And, actually, make that four hot dogs. We'll pay double."

"Do most people eat hot dogs in pairs?" asked the Simurgh. "You have only ever eaten one hot dog at a time."

That wasn't ever something Lisa had told her, but it figured that the Simurgh had access to all her past experiences. She sighed. "Remember David? And your completely normal, completely human babysitter? I bet they'll want to eat, too."

"Okay," the Simurgh said. "Four hotdogs."

"So you two are private investigators now?" the vendor asked. His voice was quavering less.

"Yeah," Tattletale said. She flipped open her wallet to flash her newly minted license.

"Well," the hot dog vendor said. "My little girl lost her puppy the other day. Could you . . . maybe look into that?"

The Simurgh screamed quietly.

It was closer to a song than her earlier outburst had been.

"That's a yes," Lisa said, but her translation fell on deaf ears; their first customer had fainted.


	3. The Case of the Mysteriously Absconded Canine

It was September, not nearly cold enough to warrant a heavy coat, but Lisa had brutally sacrificed her personal comfort on the altar of noir aesthetic. She'd chosen to wear a trench coat with the collar turned up, and she'd pulled the brim of a heavy brown fedora down over her brow.

She was standing outside the apartment building where Bob Ferricher, the hotdog vendor who had hired them against his better judgment, and his daughter Tonya lived. The apartment had, until his disappearance the previous week, also housed a puppy named Max.

Captivating as the mystery—their first real case!—ought to be, Lisa was too distracted by the Simurgh's outfit to focus. "Sam" had also chosen a trench coat, but it covered her wings as well as her humanoid form. She looked like a fifteen foot tall sack someone had stuck sunglasses and a hat on.

There was _nothing_ inconspicuous about their presence, but that was fine.

A day had passed since Mr. Ferricher had told them his story, and that was enough for one of their contacts, an expert in the art of puppy location, to make the journey to New York.

 _She_ wasn't inconspicuous, either.

"Hey, Rachel," Lisa said. Her friend had arrived on Bastard, alone except for three other dogs.

Bitch nodded. "The fuck is the Simurgh here for?"

Lisa knew that Rachel wouldn't appreciate any lines about "Sam Stewart, the perfectly normal human," so she chose to be straightforward. "She's pretending to be a human. Says she wants to be a detective," Lisa said, hoping the Simurgh wouldn't retaliate. "I don't know why, but I think it has to do with an Eidolon clone. I'm too scared to tell her to fuck off."

Rachel digested this news. "I can tell her to fuck off."

"Thanks for offering, but I'm worried she might do something bad if I don't play along." Lisa pulled a photograph out of her pocket and handed it over. "We're looking for this little guy. I think he's a rotweiller."

Rachel shook her head. "Pitweiller. Rotweiller mixed with pitbull."

"Good to know," Lisa said. The woman the Ferrichers had bought from hadn't known about its origins ( _lied_ , her power interjected; the breeder had concealed the fact the father was three-quarters pitbull in order to sell the puppies more easily).

Probably irrelevant.

"Got anything of his to smell?" Rachel asked.

The Simurgh telekinetically directed a dog bed out from underneath her coat and over to Rachel.

Rachel took the bed out of the air without blinking and held it in front of the foxhound, bloodhound, and beagle she had brought with her. "Doon, Colbie, Reg. Nose."

Once Lisa had climbed onto Bastard and settled herself behind Rachel they set off, scent hounds leading the way and the Simurgh-sized pile of suede drifting after them.

It turned out that the dogs' noses were reliable—or, perhaps, the Simurgh was helping them along. In less than thirty minutes, they had passed from the shining, reconstructed housing area in Manhattan into a crumbling, still unrestored part of Queens. As they approached an abandoned warehouse, the dogs they were following started barking and sped up.

The beagle, partially enhanced by Rachel's power, easily charged through the corrugated iron door, snapping the padlock on the outside as it went.

She could hear a dogfight break out immediately, and Rachel leapt off of Bastard and barreled after her dog. Lisa took more time to dismount. By the time she entered, she saw their snarling attacker was chained up, emaciated, _angry_ —a far cry from the smiling puppy in the photograph Tonya had provided.

Ziz's telekinesis intercepted him before his jaws could close on Reg's snout.

"Wow," Lisa said, keeping her voice entirely without affect. "A levitating dog. What a mysterious and unexplained event."

"Knock it off," Rachel told the Simurgh.

The Simurgh knocked it off.

Between Bastard, Rachel, the larger than life scent hounds, and its brief experience flying, the puppy realized it was overmatched and backed down, cowering.

"Fuckers," Rachel said, running her hands over his coat. "He hasn't been eating enough. He's got fleas. And he's hurt."

"That would make sense," Lisa said. "He got lost a week ago."

"Dog's not lost," she bit out. "Dog's been kidnapped and abused. Someone hit him, I think two guys or more. They've been making him angry, starving him, making him want to fight."

Lisa could see it. Max was an unneutered male from a breed that would grow large and, with the right maltreatment, aggressive. "They were using him as a guard dog," Lisa said. She swept her eyes around the warehouse, looking for anything her power might use to give her answers. "Which begs the question . . . What did they want him to guard?"

"Dunno. Steal whatever it is. Or wreck it."

She heard the Simurgh's text to speech converter from the next room over. "Lisa, come here and take a look."

Lisa was somewhat nonplussed to find the Simurgh holding a magnifying glass between one thumb and index finger and pointing it vaguely in the direction of the wall.

"I believe you've seen something like this before," Ziz continued.

"That's a wall, so, uh, yes, I have," Lisa said. "I get that most walls you've seen haven't been intact because—well, for whatever reason—but they are pretty normal."

The Simurgh stood still for a few moments. Then she turned and lifted her left hand, the one that wasn't grasping the magnifying glass, and pointed in the direction of the opposite corner.

Abandoned equipment, including microscopes, surgical implements, and two laboratory blenders, sat on the tables. _Used dogs for security system instead of electronics, wanted authorities to think this site was still abandoned; used dogs for a security system instead of humans, avoided cameras, wanted to minimize witnesses._

She blinked.

 _Owner didn't want to be seen using equipment; lab-grade equipment for conducting tests; wanted to avoid scrutiny, illegal experimentation. Illegal experimentation, minimize witnesses_ . . .

She walked out the back door of the warehouse to an empty lot. There were mounds of gravel, crushed asphalt, and dirt all across the area, which spanned an acre or so.

The Simurgh followed her and spoke. "What are you thinking, Lisa?"

Lisa pointed at one _particular_ mound. "I'm thinking it would be really nice if _that_ pile of dirt was somehow _somewhere else_."

"It's a shame I can't help you with that," said the Simurgh, even as the entire pile of earth rose twenty feet into the air and flew across the yard.

"It is," Lisa agreed. "But look, it's moving on its own! What a neat coincidence."

The Simurgh nodded. "It does seem as though the situation has resolved itself, without any outside intervention."

Lisa whistled. "I guess dreams really do come true."

Then she looked in the hole Ziz had unearthed. She'd known what it was and that it would be bad, but this—she jumped back and only Sam's telekinetic intervention stopped her from falling.

"So do nightmares," the Simurgh said.

*

"Where's the Simurgh?" Legend asked.

Not "how are you doing" or "why did you call me" or even "what's with that mass grave," but _where's the Simurgh_.

Tattletale rolled her eyes, though she suspected the effect was spoiled by the fact he couldn't see underneath the brim of her hat. "Nobody knows where the Simurgh is. If you're asking about Samantha Stewart, the ordinary human woman I investigate crime with in a very un-Endbringerlike manner, she's with Bitch, returning the missing puppy we were hired to find to its owner."

"You called me here so that you could watch me play with your phone?"

Tattletale smiled and pointed. "I'm using my phone to take pictures of _that_ ," she said.

Legend looked into the pit and recoiled.

Two dozen bodies, twisted beyond recognition—not only because they'd been shot in the head and covered in slaked lime, but because the majority of the victims _themselves_ were warped. Most were marked by some grotesque transformation—extra limbs, uncanny elongation, bulges and boils, parchment-like skin, animalistic features.

"What in God's name happened here?" he whispered

"Someone's carrying on Cauldron's legacy," she said.

" _How?_ "

"Scion's body was big. When he died, parts of that body got all over the place." 

"I personally destroyed all of the pieces I could find," Legend said. "It was one of the first things that I did after I got control of my body back."

"You ain't the only one who went looking. Someone else—rather, I think _multiple_ someone elses—have made a point of finding what they could. They're experimenting with the body like Cauldron did."

"Not everyone here is a monster," Legend said.

"They were the ones with mental deficiencies. Think Doormaker."

"And the ones who weren't shot?"

"The formula killed them outright. I haven't figured out how they killed the brutes too durable to be shot yet, but I'm almost certain they did. Do."

"They're still active?"

"Mhm. I imagine this is one of many testing sites. I called you because the authorities need to know about it—and because you know better than most of us what can be done with parts of alien god."

"Yes," he said shortly. "I've sinned."

"Beside the point. I want to know what insight into Cauldron's operations you can provide. Is there anyone else who might have an idea how they operated, insights they gleaned—"

"Contessa," he said. "She could be behind this."

"No, ninety percent sure. This is going to sound strange, all things considered, but I'm pretty sure Contessa wouldn't willingly choose do something like this. We can check with Yamada—"

"Yamada won't say anything against her," Legend said.

"But I think the only reason these people are still in operation is that Contessa doesn't know about them. If she'd been able to detect them, I suspect they'd have already met a short and brutal end. Anything else you can say about how they worked?"

He set his jaw. "I never helped harvest the other's body. You saw more of it through Weaver's camera than I ever did."

Lisa sighed. She should have expected the Doctor would take those secrets to her—well, not grave, exactly, but _smooshied blood puddle_ didn't easily roll off the tongue.

"Are you in touch with Contessa?" Tattletale asked. "I'd contact her myself, but I don't think she approves of my, um, new friend."

His lips thinned out so much that she thought they were in danger of losing access to the third dimension. "No," he said.

Something about that statement made her think he was lying. She allowed the barriers she put up against her power to come down.

"You sure about that?" she asked. "I can see her staying in touch, if only to leverage you in the future."

"The last time I saw her, she was in Jessica Yamada's office. I heard from her exactly once since then, and that was a five-word note."

"She did something to your family?" Lisa asked.

"You're smart enough to find out a way to talk to her," he said.

"Your son," Tattletale said. "Sort of. No, your daughter. Your daughter is one of her clones?"

He stopped pretending he didn't know what he was talking about. " _One_ of—"

"Yeah, I met the other four a while back. Not bad, as far as omnipotent nine-year-olds go. Shy. Snuggly. Winkled a dog out of Bitch."

" _Five_ ," he said. His voice was quiet, as though awestruck—or too horrified to speak at a normal volume. Then he shook his head. "So, the people who run this business. What do you know about them?"

"They're small, probably less than ten even taking the parahumans they're creating into account. Based off of what I've read of the Wardens' files one the triggers going wrong lately and what I'm picking up on here, I'd say that maybe one in thirty, one in forty of their subjects comes out _right_."

"What else can you tell me?"

"For now? That's about it. Their security features were rudimentary. Nothing digital. The dog, rather than an alarm. If something went bad, they solved the problem with lethal force. Fuckers didn't even buy their own dog. Everything points to a few people who got an idea and wanted to keep quiet, build up power off the radar."

Legend nodded. "I'll put the Wardens' thinkers on it. What do you need in order to work this?"

"A paper trail. Deeds, utilities bills, neighbors' statements, statements from the Wardens' patrols that canvass this area—pretty much anything you have on this address." She could get all those things herself, but didn't see the point in tipping her hand to that extent. "Send me everything," she added, "even something that might seem trivial. I'll use what you send me to try and pinpoint other addresses with similar characteristics, find other test sites, get more information that way—"

"Anything else?"

"Ask Valkyrie if anything in the local capescape has been unusual," Lisa said. "She could tell the difference between natural and Cauldron capes. Maybe she can pick out the people who survived the tests."

Legend was already entering a number into his phone. "She's busy with her resurrection project, but I'm sure she could spare time for this. I'll see if I can reach her now."

"Yeah, sounds good," Lisa said distantly. She was already on her way; she needed to leave before _too_ many heroes showed up, including one smart, paranoid, or rude enough to wonder whether _she_ might be behind the slaughter.

*

As Lisa walked through the streets of New York, she reflected that, if the multiverse were a just place, it would be raining. The PI who had no leads and who was planning to drink her problems away _deserved_ a rainstorm to brood in.

The sky remained sunny, presumably out of spite.

Lisa finally reached her destination, the Cutting Edge nightclub, and pushed open the door.

In a few hours, the club would be filled with the well-heeled and  looking to get drunk and hook up.

For now, it was happy hour, and only a handful of professionals—that is to say, six functional alcoholics and eight budding alcoholics—were present.

She crossed the still-empty dance floor and sat at the bar. She didn't need her power to interpret the bartender's expression as a contemptuous sneer.

Lisa started her off at two-thirds of a grin. "Whiskey, neat," she said.

"No," the bartender said. "You're not of age."

Lisa opened her wallet and pulled out her private investigator's license. "I'll have you know the government says that I'm twenty-five. Miss Militia herself agreed."

"Well, if _Miss Militia_ says so, then I stand corrected," the bartender said. She poured an amber-colored liquid into a glass and handed it to Lisa.

It was apple juice.

Lisa upgraded her smile to eighty percent of a grin. It was a good comeback, fake whiskey for a fake ID. Giving her opponent a sense of superiority at the beginning might make her more amenable as their conversation progressed.

Besides, she didn't want to _actually_ become an alcoholic in the name of noir.

She'd concede the point, but only in the most irritating manner she could devise. "Smooth," Lisa remarked. "I'm detecting a hint of, hmm, you know, the woody aftertaste that indicates it was a good year for the corn crops. 1968, I'd guess? A _stunning_ vintage. I'm surprised you can afford this."

"Get out," said Faultline.

Lisa held up the hand that wasn't being occupied by juice. "I will, I promise. I'm actually looking into something extremely important, something that might interest you."

Faultline's blue eyes narrowed. "Prove it."

She opened up the program on her phone that stored photos, selected one of the more grisly scenes from the grave she'd just found, and passed it over.

"This man—he looks like one of the monsters Cauldron made, but I don't recognize him."

"Yep. Someone's collecting parts of Scion and packaging them for consumption. Doing the same shit Cauldron did, only the ones that come out _wrong_ are getting _executed_."

"I heard you and the Simurgh had become private detectives," Faultline said; Lisa's power chimed in to inform her that Faultline had sent Newter to investigate the offices of Simurgh and Snitch to confirm the truth of the rumors. "And this is, what, your first case?"

"Yeah, and my best lead went nowhere, so I'm stuck with second-best. Believe me, I'm as depressed as you are about it."

"Are you trying to make me angry?"

"Always, but that's more of a secondary goal today. This is something you need to hear."

"You've got until you finish your drink."

"You know Contessa, right?"

"She left an impression."

"Yeah, well, I did her boyfriend a _huge_ favor a few months ago. In return she helped me refine and expand my operations. I was strong on my own _before_ , but _now_ I'm basically unbeatable. Doesn't matter if it's legitimate or illegitimate—construction, drugs, real estate, the black market in pre-Scion luxury goods—I'm there, not so much in on the ground floor but being part of the _foundation_ of the new society across half a dozen earths."

"I'm wondering if that whiskey was a little too alcoholic, because you seem to be rambling."

"What I'm saying, Mel-Mel, is that I'm a big deal. There's not a major crime that happens in any variation of these five boroughs without my say-so. That's the unofficial bargain I've made with the white hats, although they don't acknowledge that bargain in so many words."

"You said you came here for my help," Faultline said slowly. "But all I'm hearing is that you want help in getting my boot lodged far up your ass."

"You don't understand?" Lisa asked. "I've found that there's another organization that's been operating under my nose, committing the worst of atrocities without me noticing. I don't know _why_ they're doing this—power, profit, simple sadism, some sort of mad scientist compulsion to see what will happen—and I don't know _who_. I'm asking for help finding these people."

"That's not going to come cheaply," Faultline said.

"Yeah, yeah, the sign of the dollar is all that's holy, whatever, I get it. Three million."

"Six," Faultline countered.

"Ten it is," Lisa said cheerfully. It made Faultline more annoyed, which she knew it would. Lisa finished off the juice and continued. "You know, I make more money every day I sit watching the Simurgh be grotesquely maternal than you've seen your entire career."  

Faultline's pride in her image as a professional prevented her from stooping to acknowledging Lisa's provocation, but only just. She had to take a moment to unclench her jaw before speaking. "The job you want done?"

"I want something like a retainer. Standing deal. Whoever's behind this doesn't have the ability to cover their tracks like Cauldron did. They will make a mistake eventually, and I want to know if they make it in front of you."

"What makes you think I'm going to end up involved in this?"

"You have a track record of being kind to the so-called monsters. A victim who escaped their tests might seek you out—tell me if that happens."

"I don't run a charity or take just anyone in," Faultline said stiffly.

"Yeah, but they might not know you like I do. Or they might be too desperate to care. Point is, I need information to work, and I'm paying you for any you might come across."

Faultline nodded. "I will let you know if anyone who escaped this new group's experimentation seeks me out."

"One other thing," Tattletale said. "Heading a loving home for Case 53s isn't the only reputation you have. You've made a name for yourself as a _neutral party_. The people who did this might end up being the ones who approach you."

Faultline seemed outraged at the very thought. "They'd be sent away," she said. "There are some people who can't be trusted to enter into a contract. Anyone who would do _that_ is one of them. You saw me turn down Cauldron when they asked me to open portals for them during the first Khonsu attack."

"Two things. First is that Cauldron knew that you'd refuse," Lisa said. "They brought you to that meeting and publicly made an offer they knew you'd refuse so that _other_ people would pay you to open the portals they wanted you to _without_ having to pay for 'em."

Faultline's face grew darker, and Tattletale's smile grew wider.

"Second is that you might not _know_ the people looking to hire you are behind this. I think it would be someone you haven't seen before, at least not before Gold Morning. A new face in town, or maybe someone you know is willing to work with others as an intermediary."

Faultline nodded. "Is there an expiration date to this _retainer_?"

"Until I do find the people responsible."

"You'll pay up front."

Lisa handed over the check she'd already written.

Faultline glared at it, as though each of the ten million dollars was being individually insolent. She raised her eyes to meet Lisa's. "You know you don't need me. The Simurgh could find them."

"Probably, but she doesn't seem inclined to, at least not directly. Not that she's involved in this situation in any way, of course." 

"'Of course,'" Faultline said, audible scare quotes and all. "You're having trouble with your 'friend.'"

"I'm not, actually, and that's what's _bugging_ me. She's acting committed to this—whatever you want to call it. Charade? Farce? She cloned Eidolon and the kid actually thinks she's his mom. I just—I know something is going to happen, but I don't know what. Waiting for the other shoe to drop is driving me _crazy_."

"Good," Faultline said. She put the bill down in front of Tattletale. "Now pay and get out."

"I love you, too," Lisa said, again opening her wallet. The receipt made her smile increase to one _hundred_ percent; Faultline had charged her for a whiskey.

She left a $500 tip and walked home under an obstinately blue sky.


End file.
